


Over Streams, Under Stars

by swanofakind, Unlos



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Expansive, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/F, Me making a timeline in my author's note a la Tolkien's appendices while laughing at my own expense, Third Age, middle earth politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-26 00:50:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20380954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swanofakind/pseuds/swanofakind, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unlos/pseuds/Unlos
Summary: Convinced of the need for a safer home for her people and inspired by the migration of the Harfoots nearly a century past, the first Fallohide to travel westward--a hobbit newly of age, Berylla--encounters an unexpected settlement of dwarves in the north of the Misty Mountains. When her stay is extended by a storm that closes the way over the mountains, Berylla gladly accepts an offer to learn archery with Ûlla, beloved daughter and heir of her mother, the chieftain.//Story by @swanofakind, Artwork by @Unlos





	Over Streams, Under Stars

# Over Streams, Under Stars

**[Evening, last day of July, 1140 of the Third Age]**

Berylla was used to much more comfort than this. Not that she had led an entirely comfortable life. It had rather to do with the fact that she was the sort who could be comfortable in most places, who expended what energy was needed in order to be comfortable wherever she was and whatever she was doing. It mattered not whether that comfort meant enjoying a soft bed or savoring a last bite, or wrapping herself only in the memory of a cozy blanket, or choosing to fill her senses with the remembrance of finer food. Even on the hardest parts of her journey from the vale, she’d at least had the solace of feeling at home in her memories, in her own skin.

This was anything but comfortable. She felt the discomfit down to her bones. It wasn’t just that she still felt a stranger after the past few months with the dwarves. It could not be explained simply by the hard questions the chieftain had asked earlier that day. It was … Berylla’s thoughts wound down a path she had specifically come out to avoid with some target practice. She returned her focus with great effort, letting the sight of the well-worn target and the feel of the weapon in her hand—string, grip, shaft and all—draw her back into the moment.

Her concentration held for several heartbeats as she carefully adjusted her stance and aim. Unruly as so often of late, her mind flashed back to the rocky ground of her nights under the stars. Even that had been more comfortable than—

“Lower.” Despite the softness in it, the dwarf’s voice grated against her thoughts. She ignored Ûlla firmly, leaving her bow as it had been. Not for the first time, she wished Ulla hadn’t followed her out.

_Hssskkk_. The thrum of the bow made the callous on her left thumb buzz. She let her breath out in a thin hiss. The arrow had sailed cleanly above the target. The buzz spread out from her thumb to fill her arm, her brain. She did not turn, but calmly set down the bow and marched out after the arrows. All six had missed their mark, though missing the target entirely was unique to this last attempt. Ûlla did not call out after her.

She kept her mind focused by counting the paces across the meadow. Thirty-nine to the first glimpse of the stream that marked the southern boundary of the dwarven settlement, twenty-two more to a mossy log that had reminded her of one that lay where Mirkwood met her family’s farm. She had yet to reach another dozen when the soft tread of dwarven boots interrupted her count. Berylla bit into her lip, not wanting to speak. Ûlla remained silent.

They walked in silence another few yards, and Berylla watched a grasshopper bound across their path.

“You’ve really made great improvements you know.”

Berylla trained her eyes ahead with resolute will and attempted to keep her face passive, though her heart had begun a sort of clamor. They reached the target. She knew it was stupid to judge herself as harshly as she was, especially since she’d been shooting in the failing light. She continued to do so anyway as she deftly removed the arrows from the target. It was easier than acknowledging—

The dwarf’s voice cut through her thoughts: “You have come farther in so short a time than many are able to come in—”

Berylla held up a hand and Ulla fell silent. The hobbit then moved swiftly past the target, eyes trained for the last arrow. At least she’d shot true and it was only a matter of walking several yards past the target. _There._ She bent down to grab the arrow and turned back in one movement. Ulla was still standing by the target but was facing back toward the settlement proper. Berylla sighed, the pang in her chest firmly ignored as she walked briskly back the way she’d come. The silence stretched, feeling more oppressive with each step rather than merciful. If she could hold it together until she was alone, if she could take some minutes before the feasting began to clear her mind, to—_oh, it’s all useless now, isn’t it?_ Her emotions were a churning river; she could only hope the dwarf would keep the silence and—

“I understand your frustration, Ber—”

“You understand nothing!” The roar that erupted from her felt like hot coals being scraped across her chest as she turned to face Ûlla. Ûlla’s eyes were wide as saucers, her lips still frozen with the shape of Berylla’s name.

“How could you understanding anything about me? About my frustration?” Berylla dragged out the word, feeling it slice through her. Part of her desparately wanted to stop, to go back to silence and a stoic façade; part of her wanted to rage into oblivion. Her next words came out in an oozing sort of hiss, some paltry compromise between the two sides: “I don’t need your pretenses, you have never, you couldn’t possibly, there is no chance you could, I have led an utterly different life than you and”—she could feel herself sputtering but was powerless to stem the tide now, though her voice had gone soft and watery. “You have no idea what it’s like to be trapped like me, be alone like me.”

She drew breath to continue, but Ûlla took her hand.

“Dear Berylla.” Their eyes locked, and Berylla froze, lost for some long moment in the gentleness of Ûlla’s gaze. She thought she might melt away in the comfort of it, the momentary peace that began winding its way through her. But a moment was all it could be. Never more than that, never as I—the word would not even form in her thoughts.

“I am not your dear.” As soon as the words were there in the air between them, Berylla was awash in regret.

Ûlla blinked hard and fast, jerking back her hand as if stung. She swallowed once, then turned and walked back towards the settlement.

Berylla stood still as stone, watching as Ûlla’s silhouette grew smaller with the distance, yet brighter in the glow cast by the many flames. The cooking fires had been burning all day, but more now joined them, as the final preparations for the first night of feasting were made.

Her mind was empty, utterly blank.

She saw someone notice Ûlla’s entrance: they greeted the dwarf, and then looked past her out to the meadow where Berylla still stood. Ûlla had made no sign of stopping, and was now impossible to distinguish amid the tables and banners and smiling faces. She wondered if she herself could likewise be seen at this distance. Or was she just a blur amid the brome and rye in the fading light, an unmoving stump amid the grasses dancing with the evening breeze? If she turned and made for the stream, would she be anything other than a dash of motion through the field, a deer rippling through the grass, on its way to ….

Arms waving with great enthusiasm made clear she’d been spotted.

_Come on, you fool. _She sighed heavily and long. _You’re no bolting fawn, and you are on your way to a great feast among great folk._

She started walking, working to find some levity of heart more proper for the occasion. But the shadow of her words to Ûlla were longer than those that grew as the sun sank lower in the evening sky. The pit of her stomach knotted a bit more with each step, though still she managed to return a smile as Mahal’s cheerful face became clear.

“Come on!” the dwarf called to her. “What on earth did you go off to practice for now? No more working! Time for feasting! Always so serious with the two of you!” His words meant scolding, but his face was joyous and his cheer infectious. Berylla found herself chuckling weakly, quite by surprise, gesturing to demonstrate her own resignation at her assured folly. Mahal feigned exasperation.

“Always work with you! Never amusement! Tonight, this will change!” He was grinning wider than ever. Berylla smiled faintly, shaking her head, but hoping perhaps he was right. She tried not think about what it would be like to be in Ulla’s company now. _Three nights, then the feast will end, you will be on your way again…the end is in sight._

But there was no comfort in the thought.

**[Near midnight, early May, 1140 of the Third Age]**

It was the second week of travel, and Berylla was finding it impossible to keep her mind focused once night fell. At first she had promised herself no thoughts of home, only of what lay ahead. But everything she passed along her way seemed a reminder of something behind. During the day, she could keep it all at bay, focusing on the next step, calculating the next turn. Laid out to rest at night she found there were no such distractions, and her memories were more of a welcome solace than anything else. _Well, most of them. _

She smiled wryly to herself, then closed her eyes to picture it. _Home_. There was her family’s cottage by the stream. She had learned it fed the Anduin because of the stern talking-to Papa had given her for following it out of sight of the gate the second afternoon after they’d moved in. Her heart still stung with that memory, but beautifully so. Even as a child she had felt the tug of a vast wonder in the stream’s flow, the promise of a great river, the proof of which was close enough to wade in, though it’s fullness lay far out of reach.

Berylla could see Laleryn’s hair blowing in the breeze, the elf standing taller in the light of her memory. There were lilacs by the cottage gate; late spring was always lovely in the vale. She squinted against the sunlight, looking up into the elf’s green eyes. Laleryn’s bow curved up above her face, a strange extension of her knowing smile.

“Little one, you know you may not follow.” Berylla felt the tears brimming at the corner of her eyes as surely as if she were there in that moment once more.

A small nod was the only reply she could manage, a knot forming in her throat. Laleryn knelt slowly, her hand laid gently on Berylla’s left shoulder, delicate as a butterfly, yet warm as sunshine. She could still recall the way the lilacs reflected back at her in the light of that gaze.

And then Gladînen had called for Laleryn, and her parents were ushering her back inside, and the door shut more firmly then she had recalled it ever shutting before. They had roasted parsnips and cured ham and soft bread for dinner, and Berylla was allowed to sit in her mother’s skirts in front of the fire much later into the evening than usual, Mama’s knitting needles ticking out a soothing rhythm, her father managing ledgers while reciting some of her favorite poems, most from memory.

_…silivren penna míriel  
_ _o menel aglar elenath…_

Her eyes snapped open, and she was brought back to the present, laid out on the stony ground. The lines of the poem wound through her memory, her father’s voice speaking them out into the night sky above her eyes, curling around and between the stars.

She felt betrayed by the memory. She had not wished to think of her father at all. With an exasperated sigh she cut her thoughts short and rolled out of her blanket and up to standing.

There was a figure standing directly in front of her. Somehow, she managed not to scream.

“You’re not an orc.” The voice sounded surprised, and pleasantly so. But the glint of metal from the blade in their hands was more than enough incentive for Berylla to remain stock still even so.

“No, not at all.” She felt a bit silly, but she had spoken reflexively. The stranger’s mouth quirked at the corners and their eyes flashed to the left, over Berylla’s shoulder. She very slowly moved her head to follow the look as a feeling of being watched flowed over her shoulders and down her back.

“Don’t move,” said a voice from behind her, quieter than the first stranger’s, but more commanding. Berylla schooled herself to a calm she did not feel. The breeze in the trees smelled like home; she pictured the lilacs swaying to its song.

“What is your business here, not-an-orc?” inquired the first voice. She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

“I am traveling over the mountains. I seek my kin on the other side.” She tried to keep her voice even, but it felt thin in her mouth.

“Your kin?” The first stranger sounded bemused. Their face dropped quickly and Berylla imagined there must be a stern face to go with the commanding voice from behind her, which now spoke again.

“You are a harfoot.” It was a statement, so Berylla made no move to answer. _Halfway to right, at least. _There was a soft sort of knocking and a slight rustle of fabric, then boots crunched forward and around her, until the second stranger was standing in front of her next to the now rather open-mouthed first stranger.

There was little light from the moon, but Berylla could make out that the second one was armed with bow and sword—perhaps more that was hidden—and was only about a hand taller than she. The other was at least two hands taller, and was sheathing their sword. There was a long moment of silence.

“I told you it was no orc.” The second stranger’s face didn’t change but Berylla could sense their air of frustration. The first stranger offered only a half-hearted shrug in response to the second’s withering glance, looking vindicated.

“We are sorry to have trespassed upon you, harfoot. Please know we intend you no harm. Free folk may yet pass freely through this land, though dark things stir and bid us be more guarded. As a sign of our goodwill, may we travel at your side, as escorts if you will? At least for a little while our paths lie over the same ground, as our home is in the mountains you are seeking to cross.”

“Do you mean to head out now?” Berylla queried, gesturing toward night still drawn tight around them, though inwardly cursing her knack for what her father called “incurable cheek.” The second stranger blinked in surprise, raising their brows. The first one barely stifled a guffaw.

“Only if you wish it. We are happy to rest here until dawn.”

“I’m not sure I am looking for escorts.”

“You seem to be rather alone and unarmed, harfoot,” offered the first stranger, rather incredulously as they looked about Berylla’s small camp. The other remained silent, watching Berylla closely.

“Yes, and what sign have I you should truly be an asset to me in that regard?” She had meant to keep her voice more even. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “You accost me in the night, weapons brandished. Dark things stir in this land as you say, and you don’t seem to be among them, now at least; yet what proof have I to trust to?” There was silence for several heartbeats. Then the second stranger replied.

“You may call me Ûlla, daughter of the Chieftain, Vili is her name, may her strength be praised.” Both of them spoke the latter part in poetic unison. “And this is Mahan,” Ûlla continued, “a young member of our guard. We saw your fire and were worried you were an orc spy; we encountered a group of them not a week past, and one slipped our net. We have been tracking them since. But we are the dwarves of East and Not-Yet-West, from Over-Mountains, Not-Under, the Blacklocks Who Remained. And we have an honor to rival any of the free peoples whose hearts are yet true. Do not underestimate our offer: we would be honored to emend our error and guide you safely. Your route follows our own path back to our home before it goes on toward those you seek. My mother’s mothers knew the harfoots, and helped lead them to the other side of the mountain when they made their great move west. But if you wish to go alone, alone you shall go.”

Berylla was more than a little awed at that answer, and more than a little tired now that the shock of the original encounter had wound back out of her chest. She felt foolish for her earlier words, especially given how grand the two of them now seemed.

“They call me Berylla,” she offered, hoping to sound friendly. “The honor would be mine, Mistress Ûlla, Master Mahan.”

“Just Ûlla.” The correction was firm, but friendly. The smile that accompanied the words seemed to have its own starlight.

“Ûlla,” Berylla repeated with a nod.

“I will take the first watch,” Ûlla said, promptly turning a marching towards the eastern edge of the small camp. Berylla stood a bit awkwardly as Mahan moved toward the other side of the fire to lay down. Sense seemed to come back to her then, and she carefully laid her blanket back out. It was greyish before dawn’s full light when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“My watch?” she asked sleepily, sitting up slowly.

“Not exactly,” said Ûlla standing back up. Berylla rubbed her eyes and looked about.

“I sort of … let you sleep through,” Mahan offered sheepishly over his shoulder, stamping out the last signs of yesternight’s fire. “You looked so, peaceful. And we’d already interrupted your sleep once, and—” He trailed off, and Berylla found herself smiling at his gesture.

“Thank you, Master Mahan. Though I hope you do not deny me the chance of proving a useful companion.” Berylla began gathering her blanket up, her bag already prepared otherwise.

“Come on!” called Ûlla, already several yards beyond the campsite. Mahan nodded at Berylla and then turned swiftly to follow his fellow dwarf. Resenting the rush but not wishing to fall any farther behind, Berylla raced to secure the blanket in a roll. She threw her bag and bundled blanket over her shoulder and took a deep breath, eyes closed and face upturned to the sky.

Then, with a last look east, Berylla moved to join the dwarves.

**[Midday, late July, 1140 of the Third Age]**

The sunlight was coming through the trees in a way that would have been pleasant were it simply a hike. Berylla found it hard to focus past the way the light dappled every bit of forest it could reach. The shifts between dim expanses and bright patterns, while making an effort to focus past them to aim, were a bit dizzying. It had been a couple of hours since she had made peace with the thought that only Ûlla would be successful in the hunt today. She hated to feel like she was giving up, but she had to admit, Ûlla had been utterly correct in her observation: using a bow in the forest _was_ different than using it under open sky. The skepticism of Chieftain Vili had been well-deserved. Her main goal now was to avoid hindering Ulla in their hunt for game that would be served at the feast.

Berylla tried to be content just to be under the trees. Their shade was a welcome balm for the heat of summer’s height. Under other circumstances, she would be overjoyed at the chance of walking through the forest. _A far cry from Papa’s admonitions._ She sighed, torn between a sense of freedom at doing what she’d always wished, and the reminder of home, and her errand, and how long she had already strayed from it. Ûlla spared her a sharp glance. _Must have been a loud sigh. _Berylla tried to look contrite, focusing extra effort in keeping her feet quiet in the underbrush. Her thoughts crept back in just as quietly, though, as she walked further on.

She _was_ glad to feel at home in the forest. She suppressed a shiver thinking of her one encounter with Mirkwood, the day the orc spies had crossed the stream, near the edge of the farm. She had been repairing the last beanpole of the day, her parents already inside preparing supper. There had been no question in her mind about what to do; she had followed them instantly. The elf-wardens were already tracking them, waiting for the right moment to strike. _But I saved Gladînen, did I not?_ She had felt mostly useless, having no weapon, no training. But she’d seen the orcs clearly, and had counted them, and warned him just in time that there must be two more. _And then Laleryn saved _your_ life, you cabbage._ Laleryn’s voice had stopped her instantly, and Berylla had hardly time to realize the elf had loosed the arrow before she heard the thud of the final orc hit the ground just behind her.

She shuddered, but held the fear of that moment closely, letting it remind her of her purpose. This was not merely a foolish pursuit of her own selfish designs, no matter what angry words there had been between her and her father that last night. Life in the vales was no longer a certain future for her folk. They needed to act, as the Harfoots had so decisively done. She needed to find her way to them, find what she could bring back to convince those who still called the vales home that there was life to be had—and a safer one at that—at the end of the way over the mountains. Of course, learning to use a bow and hunting in the forest, were things she’d always wanted to do, but it was not as if she’d lingered here because she’d forgotten the urgency of her larger mission. And learning these skills would help make her mission a success, would they not?

_And besides,_ she thought, growing more indignant, as if her father were here arguing with her now, _it’s not as if I asked for the storm that closed the pass! I’m still here because … where else would I … there’s not another way forward yet, and learning to use a bow properly with Ûlla … it’s—_

Her bow knocked against a tiny sapling she’d not seen, and she inwardly cursed her wandering mind. Ûlla stopped short ahead. Berylla braced herself to make an apology for the noise, when Ûlla crouched. _She’s seen something!_

Berylla stood still for a moment, considering her position, letting her eyes find the creature Ûlla was watching, calculating the best way to move herself to be able to take aim, wondering if that were even worth it, considering the very low chance of outshooting Ûlla and the very high one of making too much noise in the shuffle.

The deer was grazing easily, steady and oblivious. It also was staying much to the same spot. Berylla decided to chance it.

She crouched first, instantly wishing she’d more carefully checked how her bow was draw beforehand. _Nevermind that, nock your arrow_. She slid it as carefully as you could and was delighted at how silent her action was. She balanced the bow grip on the fleshy part of her palm as Ûlla had shown her, one of their first lessons together._ Find your target, see the line. _She moved her arms slowly to adjust, one after the other, holding firmly in her mind’s eye a picture of Ûlla demonstrating the stance, hoping her body was as aligned as it felt.

_Breathe. _The deer was totally still now, save for the motion of its mouth, it’s head bent to the ground. Berylla adjusted her aim another fraction of an inch.

_Check your elbow, ease your grip—_a sudden cracking cut through her thoughts and she released the arrow on reflex. The deer’s head shot up, there was second cracking sound much nearer than the first, and the bow clattered uselessly to the forest floor. Berylla cried out, gripping her arm, eyes squeezed tight against the pain.

Ûlla was beside her in an instant, and Berylla willed herself to open her eyes. The alarm in Ûlla’s face quickly shifted to…Berylla could not quite place the dwarf’s expression.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, rather flustered, though the sting was still sharp, hardly subsided from the initial blow.

“String slap,” Ûlla said, looking … relieved? Slightly amused? Berylla nodded a bit absently. “You need not apologize. Happens to even the best of archers from time to time.”

“But the cracking, I … well I scared him off.”

“No.” Ûlla said simply. Berylla wrinkled her brow in confusion until she turned her head and saw the deer, a still and sizeable shape laying atop the underbrush. “That was a twig I’d not accounted for. I broke it underfoot as I shot. _I_ am sorry to have startled you.”

“I was … my grip was off. You needn’t—,” Berylla felt herself stammering and went silent, closing her eyes against another wave of pain. But the truth was, the pain was lessening, though her embarrassment was only growing.

“Do you need assistance? Or shall I—” Berylla cut her off, meeting her gaze evenly.

“Pay me no mind, I’m sure it’s alright.” Ûlla gazed at her full in the face. Berylla counted several heartbeats, feeling each one sound in her chest. The dwarf nodded as if satisfied by something she had divined from the hobbit’s face, and then turned from Berylla, walking off towards the deer.

It was several moments before Berylla drew a breath, a deep and sudden one that brought her back to her senses. She removed her hand and looked down at her arm, trying to clear her mind by appraising the injury. It was already starting to bruise, a blue tint casting a shadow on her skin, reddish splotches gathering and growing where the string had hit. She swallowed hard and began gently prodding her forearm to confirm it was nothing more serious. The stinging sensation had yet to subside, and there was a dull sort of throbbing pain beginning to grow more prominent.

But she was smiling from ear to ear.

**[Just past sunset, two days later]**

Despite the heaviness in her heart, Berylla had to admit that Mahal was keeping true to his promise of amusement. There were so many wonderful sights to see and foods to taste and smiling folk, that she could not help but take joy in it all.

The feast was more magnificent than Berylla had imagined. All of the preparations—some of which she’d had a hand in herself—still had not prepared her for the scale and intricacy of the first evening of Gibalûl. The feast would last three nights and two days and honored the journey of the dwarves from their home in the east, the great “stream” Gibalûl referred to. The dwarves were wary of her as an outsider in most things, so she had expected that to be true for such a momentous occasion. However, they considered her presence to be most auspicious.

For she was a harfoot, by which they meant a hobbit, their own word for hobbits having come from their misunderstanding that the Harfoots who had crossed nearly a century previous had been giving the name of all hobbit-kind, and not only their own clan’s name. That Berylla was also half Harfoot proper, since her father was Fallohide but her mother was from a branch of the Harfoot family who’d remained behind in the vales seemed like a distinction impossible to truly explain. This was of note to the dwarves since, from what Berylla understood of their telling, the second group of Harfoots who’d attempted the crossing had come the same way she’d unknowingly followed, crossing much further north than the first group of Harfoots once they found the Redhorn Pass closed with unseasonably early snow.

This second group had been in bad sorts when they encountered the dwarves, stumbling slapdash into the second night of Gibalûl, having seen the lights and sounds of the feast from miles out and followed after them, like walking toward an oasis in the wilderness. The dwarves had welcomed the hobbits and even helped lead them across the mountains. For several years after, the Harfoots had sent a group of hobbits along with some of their finest early crops to the dwarves for Gibalûl each summer. But it had been many decades since the hobbits had come. In any event, the dwarves seemed eager to have Berylla take part, and hopeful that her mission might mean a renewed friendship between their peoples.

It made Berylla feel rather like a vital part of some greater history unfolding, like something out of Laleryn’s lessons. Which made her feel both grand and absolutely miniscule in the same instant, like in the heavens: great and glowing, but just one among many.

_And how have you repaid their generosity?_ She felt ashamed of her harsh words with Ulla, and was dreading their inevitable proximity once the evening’s meal began. Mahal was leading her to the high table now. As an honored guest of the chieftain, she’d been granted a seat there. Most had already taken their seats, but Berylla did not yet see Ulla or her mother. Mahal passed her off to the younger of Ulla’s aunts, Malin, who gleefully ushered Berylla into place.

Everyone seemed to have found their seat now, and then there was a great sounding of drums from the far side of the gathering, and a great song went up as Chieftain Vili and Ulla began making their way through their people and up to their seats at the table.

There were some long moments during which Berylla studied their faces, beaming and proud and looking like the stuff of legends. She did not understand the words to the song, but she could feel the triumph in them. The smile on Ulla’s face was nothing short of glorious. She looked every bit the leader her mother had raised her to be. Berylla’s heart felt tight in her chest, but she did not let her smile slip. She hoped she would have a chance to beg forgiveness before the night was through.

As they moved to take their seats, Ulla’s arm brushed against hers and Berylla took the opportunity to begin to right her wrong.

“Please, do excuse me,” Berylla said, meeting Ulla’s eyes. The dwarf paused for a moment, holding her gaze before moving to pull in the chair and take a seat.

“Of course,” she said softly in reply, then looked past Berylla to greet her aunt. Berylla schooled her face to a passive expression, then risked a glance in Ulla’s direction. Malin winked and Berylla coughed in surprise, quickly turning away. A hush fell as Chieftain Vili began addressing the crowd, but Berylla heard not a word.

_Of course, of course,  
__of course, of course_. 

Ulla’s words echoed through her mind like an elvish poem, sad and clear and far away, but as beautiful as anything she’d ever heard.

**[Last night of Gibalûl, after midnight, 1140 of the Third Age]**

“It should be Berylla. I think it’s a wonderful idea.” Malin was beaming as she made her declaration.

“Of course you think it’s a wonderful idea, sister. It is _your_ idea.” The Chieftain’s voice was low and slightly exasperated. Berylla felt—not for the first time during the conversation—that perhaps she’d not been meant to be privy to this discussion after all. But Malin had ushered her into the tent eagerly, and it had seemed not only impolite but impossible to refuse.

Ûlla was pouring tea in the corner, and Berylla could tell she was smirking even though her beard partially obscured her expression. Chieftain Vili and Malin’s other sister, Kalik was standing next to her niece, a cup of her own in an outstretched hand, waiting for tea and shrewdly observing the scene. Kalik glanced from each of her sister’s faces to Ûlla’s and then over to Berylla. It was hard to hold her gaze.

“What more is there to discuss? Kuli is too ill,” Kalik observed matter-of-factly. “Vakin is still too young. Malin and I are too—”

“Venerable,” Malin interrupted cheerfully, still grinning.

“Old,” Kalik finished in the same instant, raising an eyebrow at her younger sister. “And to ask any of the cousins is…too delicately tangled.”

“Exactly why Berylla is the perfect choice!” Malin chimed in quickly.

“You do realize I was agreeing with you, Malin?” Kalik inquired with a sort of scowl. Malin’s laugh was as warm as the small cup of tea Ûlla gently pressed into Berylla’s hand before moving to stand beside her. The scent of ginger was comforting, reminding her of autumn and home. It was mixed with—what was it? She took a sip, her brow furrowed. She could not quite place it, but it felt familiar, floral and gentle and—

“Lavender,” Ûlla whispered.

“Oh stars above and earth below!” Kalik loudly exclaimed and rolled her eyes. Berylla had not heard what remark of Malin’s had prompted such a response, but a stern glance from Vili had Malin pressing her lips together and looking quite contrite.

“I am inclined to agree, if you are amenable Ûlla, Berylla?” The chieftain looked toward both of them, and Berylla looked over to Ûlla, wishing to defer to her in such a matter. Ûlla looked at her mother for a moment over her teacup before speaking.

“Yes. I think it’s a sound choice.” The chieftain nodded and turned her gaze to Berylla.

“I would be honored,” Berylla offered with a small bow of her head.

The chieftain nodded decisively and moved to leave the tent. Kalik smiled first at Berylla and then at her niece before draining the rest of her teacup and following her elder sister. Malin looked triumphant as she patted Berylla’s cheek. When Malin moved to do the same to her niece, Ûlla gently took her aunt’s hand in her own and kissed it, shaking her head.

“You are going to drive them both mad, kami.”

“Hopefully,” Malin replied, squeezing Ûlla’s hand and giving Berylla one last look before following her sisters from the tent. Ûlla kept hold of her aunt’s hand and walked with her out of the tent. Berylla took a last drink of tea, gently placing the cup where the other’s had left theirs, and quickly followed.

She nearly stopped short when she caught sight of the deserted tables, though she’d known it would be so. The quiet was palpable after such lively celebrations the days and nights before. The Chieftain and her sisters were already on the far side of the tables, heading towards their home, but Ûlla was standing just to the front of the high table. Berylla found that her legs had turned to jelly. _Come on, cabbage._

Carefully, she crossed over to Ûlla, who was still and silent, eyes on the sky. Berylla followed her gaze up to the early evening sky, one half of the heavens already inky blue.

“Hardly a long enough discussion to warrant the tea,” Ûlla offered, her eyes still so trained on the sky that it didn’t seem as if she were addressing Berylla directly. She was inclined to agree, but it had been a delicious tea nonetheless.

“Kalik wanted an excuse to stand in the corner and opine.” Berylla found Ûlla’s observation quite correct, though it seemed rude to agree, so she continued to stay silent. There was the evening star, peeking out. It was several minutes before Ûlla spoke again.

“You do not mind?” she asked, still looking up.

“No,” Berylla replied. “Not in the least.”

“We should begin.” Ulla pulled two pairs of heavy gloves from her pocket and passed one to Berylla.

Their work was wordless and steady. Berylla found it easier than she’d imagined to figure out precisely how to go about their task. In truth, besides the feeling that perhaps she did not deserve the honor (and that she did not know enough about the dwarves and their affairs to fully grasp who would be eligible and why), the fact that tradition required the work to be done in silence was her only real hesitation: it seemed a rather large barrier to being able to do something she’d never seen anyone do.

Following Ulla, mirroring her movements, and having heard Mahal describe how the fires had been lit—he was very proud of his younger brother for having had a hand in it this year—proved to be knowledge enough to go about it effectively. There was a deep feeling in it. It was more than just blanketing fires and gathering ashes. It felt like a verse in a song the dwarves and the earth they lived on had been singing for generations, and she’d been granted the gift of humming along.

On the morning before the first night of Gibalûl, the chieftain and an attendant lit a torch by the Hoarwell’s stream that bordered their settlement. That torch came to light all of the fires and lamps that would be carefully tended to burn throughout the entire feast. Then, on the final night, the chieftain’s heir and an attendant would extinguish them one by one, then gather a bit of the ash from each of them and add it to an ornate jar. That jar was then carried back to the stream and poured into the water. At sunrise, the dwarves would work together to gather the remaining ashes into large pots for numerous uses. Berylla had been quite stunned when Mahal had explained all the things the dwarves did with the wood ash. Lining the garden to keep away the slugs she knew, and she was familiar with making soap from it. The dwarves used it for at least half a dozen other things, the tastiest of which was making cheese, as she had discovered to her delight.

They approached the final fire: the largest, in the center. They each worked to spread out the wood and the embers, scooping up the fire’s ashes and using them to smother the flames. Berylla gently knelt near the fires edge and held out the jar. With great care, Ulla scooped up a shovelful of the ashes into it. Berylla carefully stood up. The moon was quite high in the sky now.

With Ulla in the lead, they made the trek to the edge of the stream and Berylla felt shame creep into her heart as they passed by the site of her harsh words to Ulla. There was the log, and ahead, she could just make out the moonlight glinting on the stream.

When they reached the water’s edge, Ulla turned and Berylla offered the jar. It was the first time they’d locked eyes all night. There was a sadness in Ulla’s eyes that startled her, so Berylla dropped her gaze. She felt the dwarf remove the jar ever so gently. Without looking up, Berylla removed the lid. Ulla turned to the stream, raised the jar and her face to the sky, then poured the ashes into the stream. In the next instant, she deftly removed the lid from Berylla’s hand and began walking back.

Berylla did not hesitate to follow her; her heartbeat was drumming in her ears.

“If you would like to hear it, I am only too ready to offer an apology.” She winced. Her voice sounded all wrong after so much silence. Ulla did not slow down.

“I must go tomorrow, but I do not wish to leave without—” Berylla stopped short in surprise, face to face with Ulla, who had turned about quick as a snake. Berylla swallowed hard, making quite an effort to not step backward a pace or two. She was more unsure than ever now—perhaps she should just stay silent? But no. She had to make things right. But what to say next? The silence stretched.

“I…do not wish to leave…without…telling you how sorry I am.”

“For what?” Ulla voice sounded ragged where it was generally smooth.

“I should not have spoken so to you. You have been nothing but good to me. You were trying to help. I was being a fool, and I…please. I beg your pardon.”

“Did you not already have it?”

“You are most gracious, yes, and so I did, but still—even more for that then!—you deserve…that is, I should like to make amends.”

“And how shall you make amends, my—” Ulla cut herself off abruptly, her voice shaking ever so slightly, and Berylla tried not to wince. “You are leaving tomorrow; what can you do?” Berylla felt like she was swimming in the stream behind them.

“I…hoped to explain why I…” she began. _A feeble attempt_. She was out of her depth. “I have been so honored to be in your company and so…there are so many things I have not…if your words upset me, you could not have known why, I should not have spoken to you so, and I am ashamed to have spoken so meanly to someone who has shown me nothing but kindness, who has been such a…friend. In the time we have left I…well I did not wish to leave without…I wanted you to know I regret…I wanted you to know how much you have…meant to me.” It still did not feel like enough. Ulla turned away.

“You misunderstand me.”

“Please, then. Explain, if you will.” Ulla’s shoulders began to shake. Berylla slowly brought up a hand to touch her shoulder, then curled it back to her side. Instead, she moved around to face Ulla. The dwarf had her eyes closed tight, and cheeks were wet with tears.

Berylla took a step closer. She took her handkerchief and brushed first the left side and then the right of Ulla’s face. Her hands were trembling.

“What is it you mean?” Berylla’s question was barely more than a whisper. Ulla opened her eyes and looked at Berylla’s hands.

“Harfoots have tiny blankets just for tears?” Suddenly they were both laughing, the sound ringing out into the night.

“Yes,” Berylla said, smiling. “I made this one myself.” Ulla returned her smile, and for several breathless moments, they stood happy, careless, together. Their smiles faded slowly, mirrors of one another’s return to the solemnity of their conversation.

“What is it you mean?” Berylla repeated softly.

“You leave tomorrow. What can you do?” Ulla repeated. Berylla was still confused. Ulla took a deep breath, then continued, her voice just above a murmur, her head slightly bowed. “There is…your leaving—there is nothing will make amends for me in that.” Berylla blinked rapidly, her next breath drawing in sharply.

“I must go,” she offered uselessly.

“I know,” Ulla answered simply.

They stared at one another for a long moment. Berylla could hear her heart pounding in her ears again. The moon was high, but the stars seemed no less bright, as they made a vast crown above Ulla’s head.

“I do not wish to leave you.” Berylla felt almost as if another voice was speaking the words, so long had she been careful to keep from saying them aloud.

“I do not wish you to leave.” She wanted to take Ulla’s hand, but felt too frightened to move. The air was thick between them.

“I am indebted to you, utterly.”

“And I to you.” Berylla could not imagine that being true.

“I hope you know what this time, what you…have meant to me.”

“So you said before,” Ulla replied. “What do I mean to you?” The question dropped softly from Ulla’s lips, but the force of it nearly rocked Berylla back on her heels. She took a breath, but it did not feel like went to her lungs.

“You are…” she began, trying to keep her voice from trembling. “You will always be…of all that I have seen so far on this long road, through the forests, besides the mountains, over streams, under stars, you are…the most wondrous gift in all of it. And I—” Ulla reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind Berylla’s ear. Berylla raised her hand and took hold of Ulla’s, holding it gently against her face. She tried to continue, but could not speak. She stared up into Ulla’s eyes longer than she had ever dared, unable to think and not wishing to. Slowly, she reached her other hand up to Ulla’s cheek.

“I have never met anyone like you,” Berylla whispered.

“I have never met anyone like you,” Ulla whispered back with a smile. Berylla could not help but return it. Their hands dropped together, and they held them tightly between them, hand in hand, eyes shining.

“My mother…will be expecting me,” Ulla observed quietly, her smile fading. “I…let me walk you to you tent.” Gently, Ulla unwound their hands, but kept hold of one as she began walking, Berylla following beside her. They walked this way—side by side, hand in hand—all the way back, Berylla wondering how she had stepped into such a lifelike dream.

She knew there would be ages in which to feel the heartbreak. _So for tonight, I will dream._

### 

**Author's Notes & Timeline:**

This includes canon events (including estimations of some events without specific dates, as well as interpretations of the wider effects of canonical events, both of which are based on my research) and events significant to my original characters and this story, none of which contradict canon, but rather seek to both supplement and expand it. I am indebted to the folks behind Henneth-Annun.Net, Tolkien Gateway, Parf Edhellen, the Old English dictionary at majstro.com, and my wonderful artist who happily brainstormed alongside me. This is precisely the sort of turn I get for poking fun at Tolkien his timelines in the appendices of Lord of the Rings as a child. Though I always found them fascinating sources of more information about Middle-Earth, I never understood why he chose to make them in the first place. I get it now. While this story is "complete" in the sense of work I've done with it for the TRSB 2019, I am very much looking forward to writing more about these characters in the future!

_Second Age_

**3102** Gladînen born

**3421** Laleryn born

_Third Age_

**0485** A group of Blacklocks move out from their home east of Rhovanion after signs of war between the Easterlings and Gondor

**0486** They meet a group of Longbeards (Durin’s Folk) in the north of the Misty Mountains

**0490** Easterlings invade Gondor for the first time

**0492** Rómendacil I crowned in Gondor, taking that name, meaning “East-Victor,” after decisive victories over the Easterlings; birth of Ûlla Zandfaranor

**0498** The dwarves in the northern Misty Mountains split, when some decide to migrate south to join the Longbeards of Moria, but a sizeable group of Blacklocks remain behind

**0541** Turambar becomes king of Gondor after his father dies in battle against the second invasion of Gondor by the Easterlings

**0604** In response to the growing anti-Eastern sentiment among the surrounding people groups, especially in Gondor, the dwarves of the northern Misty Mountains begin a period of seclusion, cutting all ties to their southern kin, and naming as Chieftain, Ûlla Zandfaranor, so named for her travels to the Blacklocks’ ancestral home in the East

**0756** Death of Ûlla Zandfaranor; her son and only child, Ûdin, succeeds her as chieftain

**0829** Makri granddaughter of Ûdin born

**0861** Division of Arnor

**0917** Vikri daughter of Makri born

**0999** Vili daughter of Vikri born

**1050** Sauron comes to Dol Guldur at Amon Lac in Greenwood the Great, causing Thranduil to lead his people across the forest river, and the forest to become known as Mirkwood; Hyarmendacil comes to power in Gondor, a time of peace and prosperity for Gondor, but of uncertainty for those in the vales of Anduin due to fears over Gondor’s expansionism and the stirring of greater foes that such politics could bring; the first Harfoots begin crossing the Misty Mountains, migrating out of the vales, using the Redhorn Pass

**1051** Thranduil decides to make contact with the peoples of the vales of Anduin, appointing Laleryn as a liaison to the leaders in the vales, a position which she uses to begin sharing elven wisdom and learning with those who are willing. A strong friendship begins between the elves and the Fallohides in particular.

**1054** The second group of Harfoots sets out, intending to follow the same path, but are cut off indefinitely from crossing by an early snow; unwilling to travel south into Gondor’s lands, they head north along the Misty Mountains, until they meet the Blacklocks who are under the leadership of Chieftain Makri, who takes mercy on the beleaguered hobbits, helping them to pass near the source of the River Hoarwell

**1055** Chieftain Makri dies, and is succeeded by Vikri who continues her mother’s friendship with the Harfoots

**1067** Draga is born prematurely, his life and his mother’s saved by Laleryn’s skill

**1068** Ûlla daughter of Vili born

**1069** Berinda is born, a daughter of a Harfoot family that remained in the Vales with their Fallohide kin

**1083** Vikri dies young, Vili succeeds her as chieftain

**1105** Draga & Berinda are married in secret with Laleryn’s assistance

**1106** Berylla is born

**1107** Gladînen becomes head of the northern wardens of Mirkwood

**1110** Draga & Berinda move with Berylla to a remote farm near the edge of Mirkwood at the urging of Gladînen and Laleryn

**1114** Berylla begins studies with Laleryn

**1125** Berylla goes to the Fallohides major settlement in the vales against her parents’ wishes, causing a rift between Draga and Laleryn; Gladînen, who has grown in his disdain and suspicion of the peoples of the vales, as his king has, uses this as a reason to cut ties with the hobbits

**1140** Early Spring: A party of orc spies attempts to cross into Mirkwood near Draga and Berinda’s farm, and Berylla follows them into the woods, hoping to warn the elves; Laleryn saves her life. Mid-Spring: The Fallohides decide against crossing; Berylla sets out to find the Harfoots across the mountains

**1142** Berylla crosses back, seeking to lead the Fallohides into Eriador

**1143** Berylla, her parents, and a small group of Fallohides make the crossing

**1150** The rest of the Fallohides cross the mountains, leaving behind the vales of the Anduin


End file.
